Schizo
by doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Spencer Reid never made it to the age of fifty.  He never even made it to thirty.


If you'd asked Dr. Spencer Reid some facts on schizophrenia, he most likely would have thrown out a variety of information, statistics and references to obscure medical journals. He could have told you that about 1.1 percent of the population of the US was affected with it, in any given year. He could tell you about the various different symptoms, from auditory hallucinations to delusions or disorganized thinking. He might also mention that the life expectancy amongst schizophrenics was ten to twelve years lower than average, since many patients committed suicide or had other health problems.

However, what Spencer wouldn't have told you was that his mother was schizophrenic and that she lived in a mental institute, that he'd been the one to put her in that institute when he was only eighteen years old. He wouldn't tell you that he was afraid to visit her, because he knew very well that schizophrenia could be genetically passed and he didn't want to look at his possible future. If you'd asked him _specifically _about these events, he may have told you, but there was one thing he absolutely refused to tell anyone.

He wouldn't tell a very soul that, as he approached his thirtieth birthday, he was beginning to show the symptoms of the same disease that incapacitated his mother, leaving her unable to function without medication. He kept it well hidden from the team and even Garcia, the only member he'd actually talked about his fears to, was completely oblivious.

It started out as just whispering. He'd hear it when everything was silent, just whispers quickly floating past his ears. They could have easily been his clothes shifting on his body, a draft, anything and, although in the back of his mind, he was already connecting the dots, he brushed it aside. Over time, they grew louder, from whispers into as if someone was talking to him during a conference. He couldn't really make out what they were saying, only the occasional word or two, but it was beginning to become a slight distraction. It wasn't anything he could overcome however; he just needed to listen a little harder to distinguish between the real voices and the invisible ones, the ones he knew didn't exist.

Over time, it became harder and harder to hide, especially when his mind began to act up, as he put it. He was having a hard time distinguishing fact and fiction. There were some events that he couldn't put as real or imagined, whether they'd really happened or if he'd read them. There were some days where the voices were so loud that he woke up in the middle of the night, clamping his hands over his ears and literally _begging _them to stop. As a result, he began sleeping more and more, even falling asleep at the office a few times, desperately trying to escape them. It soon came to the point where they were babbling all the time, nonsense in his ears that obstructed reality. Working became harder and harder, as did basic tasks. There'd be mornings where he would wake up and forget to put on clothes, reaching his car before realizing he was still in his pajamas.

He figured that the voices would be the worst of it. His mother had never had any visions; her problems had been the auditory hallucinations, the disorganization, thinking that someone was watching her all the time. Spencer figured that he might just get off lucky.

One day, he was sitting in the bullpen, trying to focus on the case file in front of him while the voice he'd dubbed Simon rambled in his ear. Prentiss and JJ were talking at the desk beside him and he was almost certain that they kept glancing his way, that they were speaking about him. He was pretty sure that he had showered the night before... or maybe it'd been the night before that. Reality and fantasy were getting rather blurred together, especially with all the traveling he was still doing. He shot them a cautionary glance and when his eyes returned to their former position, he screamed, pushing back from his desk and throwing the folder across the room, frantically wiping his hands on his pants.

"Reid, what's wrong?" Prentiss had asked and he could only whimper, pointing at the case file. Through his eyes, it was covered with blood, some of which had leaked onto his hands. Simon and all the other voices were fighting and he yelled at them, curling up with his knees to his chest, murmuring random statistics mingled in with more whimpering.

"1.1 percent of the population... 50 million people... someone help me!"

When Prentiss and JJ looked at the folder, they saw only that: a folder, with the FBI logo on the front and the case number. Yet after they touched it, Reid refused to let them touch him. He could see the blood on the end of their fingertips, smearing across the carpet and the surface of his desks. JJ reached out to take his hand and he snapped, scrabbling up out of the bullpen and down the hallway, finding solitude in the washroom. However, the voices only became louder, echoing in the enclosed space, becoming the very air around him. He slumped against the walls, fingers stuck into his ears, rocking back and forth.

"Stop it," he whispered, hitting his head off the wall. Looking up at the mirror, he could see shadows flickering in and out, dark shadows that were going to engulf him. He shut his eyes but even with his senses cut off, he could still hear them, all mixing together into one huge voice that was making him drown.

"Stop!" he yelled, tears running down his face as he continued to bash his head against the wall. He didn't hear the bathroom door open, although it was loud enough that agents a floor below reported hearing it, and he didn't hear Morgan calling his name until he was literally nose to nose with him. Even then, it was a whisper, as if he was hearing it through a pane of glass.

"Reid!" He managed to force one eye open, terrified that the shadows would be overhead but there was only Morgan, staring at him with complete terror in his eyes. He took hold of Reid's wrists and gently pulled his fingers out of his ears. For the first time in a long time, everything was _silent. _He could hear his own laboured breathing and the steady tap of a faucet leaking but there were no voices.

"Reid... we need to talk," Morgan said, helping him up and immediately pointing him away from the mirror. "You haven't showered in days, that shirt is at least a week old and you look exhausted. Now this... you may think we didn't notice, but we did and it's like this: you're no longer yourself, Reid. You need help... and until you get the help you need, you can no longer work in this unit." If Morgan hadn't have been holding him up, Reid probably would have slumped to the floor like a jellyfish. He had been convinced that he'd been hiding his illness, that no one had noticed but now he felt so _stupid._ He'd lost his job, the job his life revolved around.

"I'm just like her," he sobbed, hiding his face like an ashamed child. "I'm just like my Mom."

"No, you're not," Morgan said, still clutching Reid's shoulders. "You are _not._" Reid reached into his front pocket and pulled out his badge, pressing it into Morgan's hands.

"My gun is in my desk," he choked, barely able to talk. "Do whatever you want with it." Before Morgan could respond, he fled, taking the shortest route through the bullpen, feeling everyone's gaze on him. Prentiss and JJ still had blood on their fingers and he had to look away before he vomited on the floor. As soon as he reached the elevator, Simon returned, whispering horrible, _horrible_ things in his ears.

"We're all you have Spencer," he leered. And it was true.

Spencer Reid didn't want to end up like his mother. He knew medication could only go so far, that he could never work for the FBI again with his condition. After all, many of the unsub's they went after were schizo's, like him; for all he knew, he might end up on their list someday and he could just imagine the looks on their faces when they found him. He didn't want to see their pity and he didn't want to see them visiting him in the institute, awkwardly trying to converse.

He simply couldn't do it. His mind was still relatively clear and as he stepped out of the elevator, he began running through all the statistics he could still remember, searching and searching for one that would be right.

_55.1 percent of suicides are by firearms._ Spencer had just handed in his issued gun to Morgan and the only weapons he had in his home were kitchen knives and an antique switchblade he'd purchased in a pawn shop on a whim. There were no other guns.

_20.2 percent of suicides are by hanging or suffocation._ You could hang yourself with just about anything; shoelaces, belts, bedsheets, extension cords, all of which he had in his apartment.

As he stepped outside in the afternoon sun, a breeze brushed by and he didn't wince away, like he usually did. He leaned into it, shutting his eyes and just standing still for a moment, just thinking. He wanted to get the whole 'life flashing before your eyes' thing over with before he got back home. Memories beyond memories flashed in front of his eyes, some that he hadn't thought about in years.

The Fisher King. His mother being dragged away by the two men from the hospital, sobbing hysterically and flailing. Being strung up on a flagpole. Tobias Henkle. Contracting anthrax. Victims beyond victims. Lila in the swimming pool and how beautiful she'd been. His very first case with the BAU. Finding Gideon's farewell letter.

He stood there for ten minutes, face upturned to the sky, feeling the sun on his skin as he just remembered every memory, as he savoured them. When he opened his eyes, they no longer looked tortured. Indeed, his entire body looked rejuvenated, as if it'd been freed of some great burden. As he got into his car, the agents who passed noticed how cheery he looked, something quite rare amongst the FBI. He smiled at them all and, before he pulled out for the last time, he glanced back at the cluster of building's that formed the headquarters, eyes fixating on the building that housed the BAU's offices.

"Bye," he murmured and with Simon and the others back in his ears, he went home to do what he had to.

**Author's Note: All statistics in this story are factual, although I no longer know what site I pulled them from, since this story is nearly two years old. I've seen schizophrenia up close so this story is probably one of the most emotional ones I've ever written. R&R's are appreciated.**


End file.
